Badass in Disguise Chapter 176

The scoreboard read 19:13. We were already leading, but I was just getting started. I casually dribbled the ball back to center court, one hand in my pocket, enjoying the shocked expressions on my opponents' faces.

"Don't hold back on my account," I called out to Brock, who was breathing hard, his face flushed with exertion. "I wouldn't want you thinking I got lucky."

One of Brock's teammates, a muscular guy with a buzz cut, scowled at me. "Is she fucking serious right now?"

Brock didn't respond, though I could see the muscles in his jaw working as he clenched his teeth. He was trying hard not to lose his cool, but the strain was showing.

"I'm getting the hang of it now," I said with a casual shrug. "First time playing and all. Just needed to warm up my hands a bit."

The whistle blew, and I kicked into higher gear. I moved like water, flowing around defenders who might as well have been standing still. The ball was an extension of my hand, and the basket seemed to pull it in like a magnet. Three-pointers, layups, jump shots—they all found their mark with effortless precision.

The scoreboard ticked upward: 22:13. Then 37:13. Then 45:13. By the time we hit 59:13, Brock's team looked like they'd run a marathon, while I hadn't even broken a sweat.

Students from all over campus had heard something unusual was happening. They streamed into the gymnasium, filling the previously half-empty stands until people were standing three deep along the walls. Their phones were out, recording what was quickly becoming Princeton legend.

"Holy shit," a girl in the front row whispered loudly. "Is she even human?"

Chase, who had barely touched the ball since I took over, was having the time of his life. He jogged alongside me, a massive grin splitting his face.

"Hey, Reynolds!" he called out to Brock. "You think you could do a few crunches while you're down there? I've always wondered if you actually have abs or if it's just padding in your jersey!"

Brock, who had fallen trying to block one of my shots, glared up at Chase.

Chase wasn't finished. He turned to his teammates, loud enough for everyone to hear: "Hey guys, what do you think about the dude trailing behind Brock? Is he wiping sweat or tears off his face?"

The Princeton section erupted in laughter. Even our team was grinning now, jogging around the court like they were on a casual stroll through the park while Randview's players gasped for breath.

Brock called a timeout, gathering his team in a huddle. I could see him gesturing furiously, his face red with frustration and exhaustion.

When play resumed, all five Randview players converged on me like a pack of wolves. Chase started to move toward me, but I shook my head slightly. I wanted this challenge.

They formed a tight circle around me, arms outstretched, bodies positioned to block every possible escape route. For a moment, I stood still, letting them think they had me trapped. Then I moved.

It was like watching a ballerina dance through a field of statues. I ducked, pivoted, and spun through impossibly small gaps between defenders. The ball never left my control, an obedient extension of my will. Before they could adjust, I was airborne.

The gym fell silent as I soared toward the basket, rising higher than seemed physically possible for someone my size. Time seemed to slow as I slammed the ball through the hoop with such force that the backboard shuddered.

The silence lasted exactly one second before the gym exploded.

"JADE IS A BEAST!" someone screamed from the stands, and the chant was immediately taken up by dozens, then hundreds of voices.

Chase was literally jumping up and down, pumping his fists in the air. "Holy fuck! Holy fucking fuck!" he kept repeating, his vocabulary apparently reduced to those few words by the shock of what he'd just witnessed.

Brock stood in the center of the court, hands on his knees, staring at me with a mixture of disbelief and resignation. But he wasn't done yet.

"It's not over," he insisted, straightening up with visible effort.

I smiled coolly. "Then let's continue."

What followed was less a basketball game and more a demonstration. I moved at full speed now, no longer holding back. Brock's team couldn't even track my movements, much less counter them. Their frustration mounted with every point I scored, every attempt they failed to block.

"How is she not even tired?" one of Brock's teammates gasped, watching me sink another perfect three-pointer.

Brock, his pride in tatters, made one last desperate attempt. As I dribbled toward the basket, he charged directly at me, clearly hoping to use his superior size to knock the ball away.

He didn't even come close. I sidestepped his charge effortlessly, and somehow—though no one saw exactly how it happened—Brock's calf received a powerful kick. The impact was so forceful that no one suspected it came from me. He stumbled forward, knee hitting the hardwood with a painful crack before he collapsed completely, clutching his leg and crying out in pain.

I looked down at him with cold contempt, then turned toward the basket. With calculated force, I slammed the ball into the hoop. The backboard exploded in a shower of tempered glass that rained down on the court as the final buzzer sounded.

Final score: 97:13.

The gymnasium erupted in thunderous applause and cheers. Students who had never noticed me before were on their feet, shouting my name. Phones were raised everywhere, capturing the aftermath of my performance.

"Holy shit!" a guy in a Princeton sweater exclaimed. "NBA players would look weak compared to that!"

"She's not just a goddess," another student declared. "She's the fucking queen of the court!"

Even the girls were swept up in the excitement. "I'm definitely learning basketball now," one announced to her friends. "How does someone so slim have that much arm strength?"

Brock remained on the floor, his calf and knee already turning an ugly purple. One of his teammates knelt beside him, confusion evident on his face.

"What happened to your leg, man? How'd you get hit like that?"

I shrugged, expression neutral. "Physical contact happens on the court. Isn't that what you said?"

Brock said nothing, just stared at me with a complex mix of emotions in his eyes.

"So... we really have to run?" one of his teammates asked reluctantly.

Another one sighed. "It's just running shirtless for a lap. Not a big deal for guys like us."

Chase sauntered over, his grin predatory. "You wish it was that simple. He said we could do whatever we want if he lost, right?" He looked pointedly at Brock.

"What do you want?" Brock ground out through clenched teeth.

"I'm feeling generous today," Chase announced. "You can keep your underwear on. But you're running around the entire Princeton campus, then all the way back to Randview College."

He paused, his smile widening. "And you'll be shouting 'Princeton is the best' the whole way."

Brock's face contorted with anger. "You set me up," he spat, glaring at me. "Pretending you'd never played before. Playing dumb to trick me."

I looked down at him, my expression bored. "Playing dumb? Why would I need to? This isn't exactly rocket science. One look and anyone could figure it out."

"Hear that?" Chase interjected. "Why would she need to trick someone like you? That's what genuine talent looks like. Now stop making excuses. Keep stalling and we'll take those underwear too."